


Vanity, thy name is Napoleon

by JantoJones



Series: Modest Briefings (The 2nd 100) [42]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya ponders Napoleon's preening ways.





	Vanity, thy name is Napoleon

By the time Illya Kuryakin, had located his partner, Napoleon Solo had been beaten almost to a pulp. The American had activated the distress beacon built into his tie pin while he was being attacked by three thugs. He had just passed off a package to a courier, in one of New York’s many dingy back alleys, and was waiting a while to give the man time to get clear of him. Unfortunately, being a well-dressed, and apparently wealthy gentleman, he drew the attention of three thugs.

The would-be muggers were able to land several heavy blows, several of them skull jangling, before Napoleon was able to reach his special. By sheer luck, he was able to dart one of them. The attacker’s sudden collapse caused the other to pause and, upon seeing the gun, they changed their minds about the robbery. Leaving their fallen colleague behind, they ran off into the night. 

Napoleon made a valiant attempt to get to his feet, but failed miserably. His head was spinning too much, so he decided to stay on the ground until the help he knew was coming arrived. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long, as he was only a ten minute drive from HQ.

“What happened,” Illya asked.

Solo explained, as he was helped to his unsteady feet.

“What shall we do with him?” Illya pointed to the unconscious thug.

“Remove the dart, and leave him to sleep it off,” Napoleon answered. “If he’s lucky, he’ll still have all his possessions when he wakes.”

Illya nodded.

“Come on, my friend,” he said, guiding his partner towards the car. “I think you will need a visit to medical.”

“If the situation were reversed, you would refuse.”

“Indeed. However, the situation is not reversed.”

Napoleon snorted a laugh. Suddenly, he stopped walking, having caught sight of his reflection in a window. His hair was mussed up, there was dirt on his face, his jacket was crumpled, and his tie was askew. He pulled a comb from his inside pocket and carefully teased his hair back into place. Then he licked the corner of his blue silk handkerchief and wiped the grime from his face. Finally, he straightened his tie and smoothed out his clothing. 

Illya watched it with fascination. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him tend to his appearance after some sort of action. There were times when a seemed a little too fastidious. 

“Vanity, thy name is Napoleon,” he stated.

“Vanity has nothing to do with it,” Napoleon countered.

“Then what would you call it?”

“Good breeding!” the American snapped. “Are we going to HQ or not?”

Illya choose not to press the subject just yet, even though Napoleon’s reaction had puzzled him somewhat. It wasn’t until later, when Napoleon had been declared fit, that he broached the issue once more.

“I’m sorry I was tetchy,” Napoleon apologised.

“You are forgiven, my friend, but only if you explain what it was about.”

“Okay. Sit down, and I’ll tell you a story.”

From an early age it had been drilled into Napoleon, by his paternal grandmother, that a gentleman should always be well presented. Whatever the situation might be, there was simply no excuse for looking dishevelled. She had illustrated her point by telling him that the military members of his family, all officers, were never seen in an improperly dressed state; even in battle. It was, she’d explained, a question of good breeding.

There had once been a time, at a family wedding, that Napoleon’s father had loosened his tie slightly. Napoleon’s grandmother had forcibly straightened it, in front of all the guests, and had given him the lecture every Solo man had heard many times. The lessons had been so deeply instilled in him that it had become an unconscious thing. Napoleon was proud of his appearance, and he did preen, but it wasn’t entirely down to vanity. Whenever he found himself in an untidy state, all he could hear was his grandmother berating him.

“Thank you, Napoleon,” Illya said, as Solo finished his tale. “I will endeavour to be less judgemental in the future.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tovarisch,” Napoleon replied with a smile. “Feel free to call me out on it anytime.”

“I shall hold you to that.”


End file.
